


Proving His Love

by authoresswithoutwords



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Sad Ending, Suicide, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-24 05:45:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19717420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/authoresswithoutwords/pseuds/authoresswithoutwords
Summary: Voldemort doesn't believe Harry when he confesses his love.So he has to prove it.





	Proving His Love

It’s been ten years since Harry last went outside.

It’s been ten years since Harry last used magic.

It’s been ten years since Voldemort took Harry.

It’s been five years since Harry started loving Voldemort.

It’s been two years since Harry told Voldemort that he loves him.

It’s been two years since Harry first tried to prove to Voldemort that he loves him.

Heart pounding, hands sweating, fingers trembling, Harry greets Voldemort back home, as he does every day since he stopped hating Voldemort.

Today is the day.

Today, he’ll tell him.

Voldemort comes inside, nose buried in another of his beloved tomes. He drops his coat on the floor, but Harry catches it before it can land and hangs it on its hook.

“Welcome home!”

Voldemort makes a noise that could be anything, from an acknowledgement to a returned greeting to a scolding to thankfulness for picking up his coat.

Harry, as always, takes it as, “I’m back.”

He smiles at the retreating back.

An hour later, the house elves deliver dinner. Harry waits for Voldemort before he starts, fiddling with the utensils until they lay perfectly. When Voldemort arrives, he sits down without a word. Harry serves him lamb and rice. Voldemort hums as he eats the first bite.

Harry takes it as, “Thank you.”

Smiling, he does up his own plate and starts digging in. For his taste, the sauce is a bit too bland, and he prefers poultry to lamb, but the dish perfectly suits Voldemort’s tastes, so it’s okay. Voldemort doesn’t like talking during a meal, so they eat in silence.

When Voldemort is finished, he stands and goes to leave. Harry hastily swallows down his bite and calls after him, “Wait!”

Voldemort halts.

Fidgeting a bit, Harry swallows nervously and asks, “I was wondering if I might have a bit of your time? I… I have something I’d like to say to you.”

Voldemort turns around and musters Harry with narrowed eyes. Harry tries not to look too anxious as he waits under the assessing gaze.

Finally, Voldemort turns around again. “Come,” he decrees. “I can spare five minutes.”

Relieved, Harry hurries after him. Voldemort leads him into his study, a room Harry has not been in often. It is covered in notes and books. On a wall hangs a humongous map of Britain, pins showing the current war situation. The room is dominated by a gigantic desk. Voldemort sits down in the chair behind it. It magically pushes itself in. Voldemort sorts through stacks of parchment while Harry stands awkwardly in the middle of the room.

“What do you want?”, Voldemort finally asks.

Surprised by the sudden address, Harry jumps. He turns his attention to Voldemort, not that it ever strayed from him. “I…” He licks his lips nervously and bites down on the inside of his cheek. “I think… I mean, I know that… I am very sure…”

A sigh interrupts him. “I do not have all night.”

“Right! Yes! Sorry!” Harry straightens, gathers all his courage and proclaims, “I love you.”

He waits anxiously, too scared to actually look at Voldemort’s face and see his reaction. Instead, he studies the floor. A light wood. Cherry? Mahogany? Oak? Harry doesn’t know what any of those look like. He can only guess. Voldemort would suit something hard and unrelenting, something powerful and wise. Does such a wood exist?

A snort rips him out of his contemplations and drags his head up to face Voldemort almost against his will.

“Love? You? Do you even know what that is?”, Voldemort asks, derision plain on his face.

“Yes!”, Harry protests. “I love you!”

Voldemort snorts again and turns back to his parchments, shaking his head.

Harry shakes in impotent fury.

How can he prove that he loves Voldemort?

He tried everything.

The next day, he orders a house elf to get him dating advice. It returns with a stack of book taller than Harry. He gets to work, thumbing through all of them. He even takes notes.

 _Be attentive,_ the books say. _Surprise him with presents,_ the books say. _Give him compliments,_ the books say.

So Harry is and Harry does.

He sticks closer to Voldemort than before and listens to every unsaid order, every unvoiced desire he has as well as he can. He smiles at him prettily. He fusses over his clothes before he leaves. He praises the cut of his new robes. He compliments the new haircut. The gifts are a bit difficult, seeing as Harry is not allowed to leave the house, but he commands the house elves to buy little trinkets that he thinks Voldemort will enjoy from the catalogues he’s allowed to have.

Voldemort usually unwraps them, looks at them, puts them on a nearby surface and resumes whatever he was doing. He reacts to neither compliments nor the extra attention.

So Harry consults the books again.

The following weeks, he spends most of his time in the never-used kitchen and refreshes the skills he’s long since forgotten since his stay with the Dursleys. He prepares dinner one day and takes care to make everything perfect. Throughout the week, he dropped some hints to Voldemort that he should expect something special that day, and Harry has every intention of following through. The house elves were ordered to get flowers that he spreads in a way pleasing to the eye, red rose petals on the white table cloth, orchids in the long-stemmed vase. He lights some candles and critically checks over the room again, scolding the house elves for every speck of dust he finds. He walks into the kitchen to serve the food and place it onto the plates in an aesthetic manner.

He bounces in place, anxious and with anticipation for Voldemort to arrive.

He waits.

And waits.

Today appears to be a long day.

Midnight comes and goes.

Harry cleans up and pretends that it doesn’t matter.

The next day, he tries again.

Red rose petals on white table cloth. No, not red, red is a Gryffindor colour, what was he thinking? The house elves get sent out again. After hours of searching and Harry impatiently pacing, they return with grey flowers. Harry doesn’t know what they are called, and neither does he care. He changes the table cloth.

Silver flower petals on green table cloth. No flowers in the vase. Silver candle holder with white candle, flame flickering gently. The utensils are perfectly straight, the napkins twisted into artful forms by the house elves, the plates adorned with the food impeccably, perfectly roasted salmon with Voldemort’s favourite sauce.

Voldemort arrives timely, dropping his coat for Harry to catch and hang onto its hook and replying to his cheerful greeting with a hum. He raises a brow at the way the table is set, but sits down wordlessly.

Harry takes his seat, as well, but doesn’t start eating. Instead, he carefully observes Voldemort’s face as he takes his first bite.

He chews, then frowns, stops, regards the food suspiciously.

“What’s the matter?”, Harry asks anxiously.

“The taste is off,” Voldemort replies, now glaring at the plate. “Which house elf is responsible for cooking this?”

Harry sinks into himself at the harsh tone. “I did it,” he admits in a sheepish voice.

Voldemort looks at him. “Why would you do something like that?”

“I wanted… wanted to surprise you…”

Voldemort drops his fork on the plate and stands.

“Desist from such from now on.”

Harry pretends tears don’t run down his cheeks as he cleans up.

The next things the books say is, _He’ll love a handmade present_.

So Harry obtains some guides on how to knit, wool and needles. It takes a long time until he gets the hang on it, but after a month, he’s got it. It’s the perfect time, as well, as it appears to be winter, judging from the snowflakes that linger on Voldemort’s coat when he returns home. First comes the choice of the right colours. Of course, this is Voldemort, so it must be green. But there exist so many tones of green, and so many wools in shades of green that it takes Harry an afternoon to find the right one. Then comes the choice of needles. There are many sizes, and they all produce different stitches. Small stitches might look better, but they also mean a lot more rows before the work will be completed. After some contemplation, he chooses a needle on the smaller side, but not too thin so that the work will nice without the knitting taking longer than the winter lasts. Then comes the choice of wool. With the colour fixed, the problem isn’t even close to tackled. Wools come with different thickness, different softness, fluffy and coarse, shifting colours and unicolour, made from different plants or furs. There’s even wool made out of dog fur! Here, as well, Harry chooses a happy medium, one not too fluffy and not too coarse, in a thickness matching the needles, soft to the touch, but not looking so. While choosing, he amuses himself with images of Voldemort with a scarf knitted from wool made for babies, extra soft and extra fluffy.

Everything finally decided, Harry works tirelessly for two weeks and manages a scarf. It is a bit lopsided, but without more time, Harry won’t be able to make it any better. He packs it neatly into a box and wraps it with green paper, doing it over and over again until he manages to do it without wrinkles. Ignoring the mountains of used wrapping paper, he carefully writes a card and sticks it on top.

 _With love, from Harry_.

He hopes Voldemort likes it.

The next day, when Harry wants to gift it to Voldemort, he dutifully catches to dropping coat and happily greets, “Welcome-!”

Another item drops to the ground.

Harry stares at it in disbelief.

It’s a scarf.

Green, with silver snakes on it, perfectly straight and with patterns knitted into it.

Harry blinks his eyes rapidly and snatches up the scarf, hanging it up next to the coat with shaking hands.

He doesn’t have dinner that night, only serving Voldemort and sitting in his chair morosely.

He pretends it doesn’t sting that Voldemort doesn’t even notice that something is wrong.

The next advice is, _Put all your magic into a heartfelt gift_.

Harry can’t use his wand, hasn’t even seen it in years, so all that stays are runes.

He never took Ancient Runes in school, so he hasn’t got the slightest clue, but in the large library he strikes gold. Voldemort kept his old school books, and Harry uses them to diligently study. He needs a while to understand even the simplest concepts, not being a genius and not having anyone to ask, but the house elves are sent out to bring further books for beginners and Harry slowly gains knowledge.

Surprisingly, runes can be crocheted. After knitting, crocheting shouldn’t be so hard, Harry decides, and orders the elves to get some more books.

He was mistaken.

Knitting and crocheting have almost nothing to do with each other.

The needles look completely different, the wools look completely different, the movements are completely different.

In the end, Harry spends half a year just learning before he manages to produce a pair of light gloves. He checks thrice to make sure that every thread will hold, that the gloves are big enough, broad enough, long enough to fit Voldemort’s inhuman fingers, that the runes are hidden enough not to be noticed at first glance, but not hidden enough to escape Voldemort’s attention, that he reproduced the right runes in the right order and that he didn’t make a single mistake.

Everything is perfect.

Harry nods to himself.

He packs the gloves into a box and wraps it with silver paper, knotting a green ribbon on it. On the top, he sticks another note.

 _I love you – Harry_.

He tries not to think of another, similar box, carefully placed in the very back of his wardrobe and even more carefully forgotten about.

When he presents the gift to Voldemort that evening, Voldemort raises a brow, but doesn’t comment. He rips the paper and lifts the lid of the box without looking at the note. Full of anticipation, Harry waits.

Voldemort lifts the gloves. He snorts.

“Do you really find no better way to spend your time?”

Before Harry can say anything, he drops the gloves back into the box and leaves it behind as he walks away.

Harry bites so hard on his lip that it starts to bleed as he takes the box into his room, carefully rewraps it and puts it next to the other one.

He tried everything.

Nothing worked.

So Harry gets desperate.

Finally, he finds the answer.

What does Voldemort love the most?

That’s really simple.

His life.

Voldemort leans back in his throne, releasing a weary sigh. All those stupid sycophants, bothering him with their mundane, unnecessary worries. One day, he will kill them all.

The flap of wings alerts him to the bird entering through the open window. He looks at it in surprise – it is his own bird.

It carries a red envelope.

Why would Potter send him a Howler?

With another weary sigh, he resigns himself to another love confession. As if a brat such as Potter would know anything about love! And why would Voldemort even want something meaningless as tender emotions directed at him?

The letter opens; out come whispery words in Parseltongue.

“I love you,” are the first words Potter says. “And I tried so hard to prove it to you, but you never believed it. But I finally found something that will show you exactly how much I love you! I found this book in your library, and there is this ritual inside it. You don’t even need a wand for it.” Now, Voldemort is interested. Did Potter attempt to flee again? The solemn voice continues, “I thought long and hard about what I could get you. You never liked anything I gifted you, but I never gave you anything you would like, did I? I don’t know you very well, after all. But this, you will love! The thing you like the most in this great, big world is your life. This ritual is amazing, you know? It gifts all my remaining life to you.” A pause. Voldemort is stuck in horrified understanding. What did that foolish brat do?! “I love you. I love you so mu-“

The voice gets softer and softer and stops.

Voldemort shoots to his feet and apparates home, throwing the door open carelessly and storming into Potter’s room.

There he lies on the bed, open book on one side, knife in one hand, shaky runes on the naked chest, smile on his lips.

Dead.

When Voldemort comes home the next day, the house is disconcertingly silent. When he takes off his coat, it drops to the floor. He hums automatically even though no-one is there to greet him. The dinner table is set only for one. The utensils are slightly askew. There are no flowers, no presents, no soft music, no second chair being drawn back. Nobody serves him. Nobody talks at him. When he stands, a house elf pops in to clear up.

He wonders why he feels so… empty.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much for reading! I hope you... didn't find it too sad? Enjoyed it?
> 
> This story was inspired by a German song by the band Die Toten Hosen (The Dead Trousers) called Alles Aus Liebe (All Because of Love). The chorus goes: Und alles nur, weil ich dich liebe, und ich nicht weiß, wie ich's beweisen soll. Komm, ich zeig dir, wie groß meine Liebe ist, und bringe mich für dich um. (And all just because I love you, and I don't know how I should prove it. Come, I'll show you how great my love is, and kill myself for you.)
> 
> Please tell me what you think of this story!


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